Frankly?
You're a little pleased with the boy's resolve. Not because you're impressed with him, but because the longer he's standing and the instructor hasn't called things decided, the longer you get to toy with him.
It's just enough to get you to smile slightly.
"You're going to stand and fight? How useless."
You tap his fist aside again and lightly slap his broken ribs, leaving him stumbling to the ground and gasping.
"You see? You aren't-"
The boy interrupts by flailing into a back-hand. You squat slightly and rap a couple of your knuckles against his cracked ribs again.
"Ghnargh!" is the closest approximation of the noise he makes.
It's a little cruel. Actually, it's very cruel, but you can't help but feel a perverse enjoyment.
"Is that all?" you ask, as he pants for breath on his knees, one hand in the dirt and the other across his chest. "Not a drop of skill, and you're going to face the devil of the Uchiha? Your willpower must border on masochism. How useless. Surrender is an option, you know?"
"I won't." the boy grunts, wobbling back up to his feet.
He's smiling, still. Why's he smiling at you? You're just going to hurt him more for it, and he should have realized that by now. Stupid boy. Or he really is a masochist. You're still a little pleased with the opportunity to vent, but you're starting to get annoyed with the boy himself.
"Moron. Do you see my eyes?" you say, pointing them out. "With eyes like these, I can see everything you do before you do it. I'm faster and stronger than you too. That in account, even if you had a lot of taijutsu training I'd be the obvious winner, and you clearly don't have any. I'll be happy to break as many of your ribs as you like, if-"
He moves again, fist lunging for your face and where you're already ready to catch his wrist in a display of superiority that the idiot can't possibly miss.
"I told you, it's use-" you start in, pausing as you see him do something after you catch his wrist a moment before you catch his wrist.
He opens his fist into a puffing palm and dust flies out, stinging your eyes. You shriek, slightly pained and furious and most importantly of all no longer having fun as you lash out with fingers slightly bent and bleed him, drawing lines of red across his face and your hand with your fingernails.
Your vision is blurry at the moment through dust and tears, but you've immediately switched modes from hurting him because it's funny to hurting him because you're pissed.
The next few moments are a blur in more than just vision, but when the instructor finally pulls the two of you apart you had your arms around the boy's neck from behind, slowly strangling him as you bit at his head.
You finally get his name but spend more focus on picking golden threads out from between your teeth, trying to place...
.... the taste in your mouth is coppery and salty, but it also tastes like food. Like miso, or almost beef broth...
...
You lick a trace off your finger to confirm that he doesn't just have stupid ideas about how to wash his hair, and feel like you should boggle a little. He's named after a noodle topping and his blood tastes like ramen.
That kid gives you a headache. He's waving as you stalk off to wash your face and get the dust out of your eyes. He'd better not think you're friends.
Once everything's settled down you're divided into boys and girls and split up along the most unfair division of labor ever as the boys get sent to run through an obstacle course and the girls are sent to pick flowers.
You're sent to pick flowers.
Flowers.
You quietly plot the death of the woman in charge of this class who seems to see absolutely nothing wrong with telling you to go pick a few flowers instead of doing anything meaningful.
Wait. Maybe your temper is getting the better of you.
Some flowers have medicinal purposes, right? And others, as a girl's shrieking from nearby reminds you, are toxic. You were told to just pick some you like, but maybe it's actually a test in disguise? Sorting out potential medics and poison-users from the idiots.
If that's the case, then you'll delay the execution.
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